Farmer's Markets Aren't What They Used to Be

Farmers markets originally emerged as a simple, practical idea: connecting rural growers directly with urban consumers for fresh produce and farm products.

Back in the early 1980s, I would meet a gal pal at 7:30 in the morning (can you believe that was me?) for a market that didn't even open until 8:30. It was conveniently located between where we each lived, and we happily spent an hour wandering the stalls. A huge bouquet of flowers cost about $8. They were gorgeous, fragrant, and colorful, even if they didn't last as long as the store-bought varieties.

I've always been a big believer in keeping money local. I hadn't visited our Lake Oswego Farmers Market since Covid, but local strawberries were calling my name. The market is only about half a mile from our condo, but I drove because I wasn't sure I could carry two heavy bags of produce and a bouquet of flowers all the way home.

It took me 15 minutes just to make the left turn into the park where the market is held. Then another 15 waiting to pull into the parking.  Fortunately, someone was leaving the parking structure, and I snagged a spot almost immediately.

Then came the sticker shock.

Strawberries were running $7 to $8 a pint. (After walking the entire market, I finally found a vendor packing up who sold me a pint for $5. Victory!) That bouquet of flowers? Smaller than I remembered and priced at $40.

Despite signs requesting "No Pets, Please," every other person seemed to have a big dog. Add in enormous strollers, children walking beside the strollers, and crowds moving at the speed of continental drift, and navigating the market became an endurance sport.

What surprised me most was how little actual farming seemed to be happening.

There were more craft vendors and artisans than produce growers. More food trucks than vegetable stands. More handmade soaps, jewelry, candles, and cutting boards than tomatoes and lettuce. The food smelled wonderful, but I wasn't quite ready to pay restaurant prices while standing on a patch of grass.

The farm-raised animal products were especially eye-opening. Chicken breasts were $20 a pound. Wagyu hamburger was $30 a pound. I'm sure it was delicious, but at those prices I felt obligated to ask if the cows had gone to private school.

After an hour of browsing, I found a local cheese maker and purchased two small wedges. Then I took my cheapskate self home.

Lunch that day was cheese and crackers, and honestly, it was pretty darn good.

Maybe farmers markets haven't changed as much as I have. Forty years ago, I was looking for bargains, flowers, and a fun outing with a friend. Today, I'm looking for parking, affordable strawberries, and a place to sit down.

But I have to admit, there's still something special about buying food from the people who actually grew or made it. Since I would need a small bank loan to purchase the flowers, sadly I did not buy.

P.S.  Max told me If something cost $8 in 1984, it should cost approximately $25.64 in 2026.

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

Romantic breakups get all the attention. There are songs. Movies. Ice cream scenes. Dramatic walks in the rain. But friendship breakups? Those are murkier.

There’s no official protocol for deciding someone belongs in the “pleasant acquaintance” category instead of the “I should answer this text immediately” category.

The cowardly lion in me ...

Usually, I take the coward’s route.  I slowly… drift. I stop responding quite so quickly. A text sits for a week before I answer. I suddenly become “busy.” I quit initiating lunches or coffee. Most people eventually get the hint.

At this age, friendships naturally shift anyway. Lives change. Energy changes. Tolerance changes. Honestly, sometimes patience changes.

Recently, someone from my WAY past resurfaced. She used to babysit Kate (who just turned 40 ... so you know this goes way back). We worked together once upon a time, and she lives almost an hour away.  We were mainly social at work.  She's younger and I was (am) a job hopper so we went our own ways.

Then last year came the phone call. You know the kind. “The voice from your past. Suddenly we were catching up on decades of life. Her daughter ... slightly older than Kate ... now has EIGHT children, so there was certainly plenty of material.  For her. A few months later she came to Lake Oswego and we had lunch. 

But I slowly realized something important:

Some friendships leave you feeling lighter. Others leave you feeling… tired.

And it’s nobody’s fault.

She is one of those people who can only talk while doing six other things simultaneously. Walking and yelling at the dog. Supervising grandchildren at a park. Driving somewhere. Digging through a purse. Half listening while asking someone if they need a snack.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting quietly at my table with my coffee, thinking: “Should I just hang up and call back when civilization returns?”

It wasn’t wrong.
It just wasn’t restful.

I just had to be the listener.

Then recently, a former WLLO friend texted me something that made my stomach drop a little:

“I have to ask: are you mad at me? Have I done something to offend you?”

Oh boy. This is where ghosting suddenly requires actual adult communication. She didn't get the whole message in my ghosting. So I answered honestly.

“I’m not mad at you at all. I think we just have very different personalities and I’ve realized I need to spend more time in situations and friendships that feel lighter for me. You really haven’t done anything wrong — we’re just different people. And maybe not the best fit socially.”

Her response absolutely broke my heart:

“I understand that I can be a downer and I am sorry that I am not a lighter and more upbeat personality. I am so sorry to hear that. I am not a good fit. And I grieve the situation that has developed.”

She really could ruin a perfectly happy, sunny day ...

 Oof.  Now THAT is the hard part. Because most friendship endings don’t happen because someone is evil. They happen because one person feels drained.

And both people are telling the truth.

At 74, I’ve become fiercely protective of my emotional bandwidth. I no longer believe every friendship must survive forever simply because it once mattered deeply.

• Some friendships develop in school.
• Some friendships are for raising children together.
• Some are for working years.
• Some are for surviving hard seasons.
• Some are simply for who we used to be.

And maybe maturity is realizing you can care about someone… while also knowing they are no longer your everyday person.

Still. Nobody warns you that choosing peace sometimes comes with grief attached. And honestly?

Breaking up is hard to do.

Pollyanna Rides Shotgun

Apparently I am now the Official Driver of Summer.

School is almost out, the evenings stay light until practically bedtime, and suddenly my calendar is full of soccer pickups, middle school drop offs, entrepreneurial ventures, and emergency snack runs.

And honestly? I love it.

Each grandchild has their own style. Their own rhythm. Their own agenda for our “special time” together. I know this because they actually wrote it in my birthday cards this year — they like our one-on-one time in the car.

Which melted me into a small grandmother puddle.

One grandson is an entrepreneur. I recently drove him to a friend’s house so they could hold a yard sale of clothes. Ninth graders now apparently run resale businesses with more confidence than most adults I know.

Another spends an astonishing amount of time making his hair look like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping under a bridge. This apparently requires products, careful fluffing, and deep concentration.

One asked to borrow earrings.

Another wanted mascara for his “almost mustache.”

I said no to sharing mascara but admired the commitment to personal grooming.

The youngest — now somehow in middle school, which seems biologically impossible — is wonderfully nostalgic. He likes to go through my jewelry box and ask where each piece came from. Not because it’s valuable. Because it has a story.

“That was Grandma’s.”
“I bought that on a trip.”
“Your grandfather liked those earrings.”
“I wore that to your mother’s graduation.”

I only wear earrings these days, but apparently I have become a tiny traveling museum of family history.

And every morning on the drive to school, I learn something new:

middle school politics,
new slang,
sports drama,
who likes whom,
teacher opinions,
strange YouTube trends,
and the endlessly evolving rules of teenage existence.

It keeps me connected to becoming instead of just remembering.

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve become so protective of optimism as I get older.

Not fake optimism. Not “good vibes only.” Real optimism. The kind that notices delight when it appears:

a funny conversation,
a shared iced coffee,
a kid who trusts you enough to ramble,
a summer evening drive with the windows cracked.

At this stage of life, I find myself drawn toward people who leave me feeling lighter instead of heavier. More curious instead of more exhausted.

Maybe that makes me a Pollyanna.

Honestly? I’ll take it.

Because there are worse things than finding joy in mascara mustaches, chaotic hair, yard sales, and middle school carpool confessions.

THE AMAZING SECOND ACT

My first Mother’s Day was two weeks before Kate was born.

Technically, I suppose I was already a mother. It was a perfect pregnancy, craving only oranges which my hubby dutifully peeled for me. Wondering if I would ever sleep comfortably again. But it didn’t feel real yet.  

Motherhood still seemed like a shiny Hallmark concept involving brushed hair, smiling babies, and women who somehow folded tiny socks without crying.

Then Kate arrived.  And just like that, Mother’s Day changed forever.  We went to the hospital at 8:00am and she was born at 5:17pm

Mother's Day isn't because of gifts or flowers or breakfast trays balanced precariously over sleeping mothers.  It's because suddenly, there was this little person wandering through my life leaving behind tiny moments that would somehow become permanent fixtures in my heart.

Like the preschool open house when she was about two-and-a-half.  The teachers had made litle hand cut outs for all the mothers to each write their name. Construction paper. Glue. Probably glitter — because preschool classrooms operate under the assumption that everything improves with glitter.

On my tag Kate carefully wrote across it in crooked preschool letters:

“MOM”

That was it. One word. Three letters. And honestly? I think it’s still one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Then there was the preschool play where she dressed as a witch.  Her big line was supposed to be:

“Come here, my little pretty.”

We practiced. And practiced. And practiced.

But when the moment came ... standing there in her little costume in front of all those parents ... she threw her tiny arms wide open and proudly declared:

“Come to me, fweetheart!”

The audience laughed. I nearly levitated from love.

Some children are mischievous. Some are wild. Some test every boundary known to mankind.  Mine once accidentally got a crayon mark on the sofa… and put herself in time out.

No lecture required. No dramatic parental speech. Just a devastated little girl silently marching herself away to reflect upon her crimes against upholstery.

Honestly, I should’ve bottled whatever personality trait caused that.

Mother’s Day itself has became its own collection of family stories over the years.

My sister once bought SIX identical Mother’s Day cards — one for each sibling to send to our mother.

Inside we all wrote a tiny note:

“I know you like me best.”

Frankly, that may still be the funniest and most efficient holiday shopping strategy in family history.

And then there was my mother-in-law.

She adored getting a Mother’s Day card from me because I married her only child. There was something especially tender about that relationship as the years went on. I wasn’t just celebrating my own motherhood anymore ... I was honoring the women who came before me, too.

That’s one thing nobody tells you when you’re younger.  Mother’s Day keeps changing.  At first it’s about your own mother.  Then suddenly it’s about sticky fingerprints, school projects, and tiny voices calling “Mommmmm!” from another room every six minutes.

Then one day ... almost impossibly ... you become the grandmother.  And oh my goodness.

I always thought being a mama on Mother’s Day was special, but there’s nothin’ quite like being a grandmother.

Because now I get to relive it all.

The wonder. The chaos. The tiny sneakers by the door. The funny mispronunciations. The impossible amount of food growing boys can consume in under seven minutes.

Each grandson arrived carrying his own little sack of joy straight into my heart.  And the beautiful thing about grandmotherhood is this:

You realize the ordinary moments were never ordinary at all.

The crayon marks.

The preschool performances.

The handmade cards.

The crooked little “MOM.”

Those are the things that stay.

Not the spotless house.
Not the perfect holidays.
Not whether dinner was organic.

Just love.

Messy, funny, exhausting, unforgettable love.

And if I’m lucky, someday one of those boys will be writing about us too.  (Although hopefully not about the time I let them eat tortilla chips and guacamole for dinner).

Happy Mother’s Day to the mamas, grandmas, stepmoms, chosen moms, grieving moms, hopeful moms, and every woman who has ever loved a child with her whole heart.

Even when they drew on the sofa.

Braeden, October 2010

     

Deacon, March 2014

The Wonderful (and Slightly Exhausting) Month of May

May is a beautiful mix of memories, milestones… and a surprising number of things I’m apparently expected to attend.

The weather improves, native plants bloom, and suddenly everyone is outdoors pretending they’ve always loved fresh air. There are May Day rallies, community events, and—today—the Lake Oswego Lake Run, where people voluntarily run distances I wouldn’t drive without snacks.
   

my coping strategy

It all begins with my birthday on May 1—shared with two delightful “birthday twins.” I also hear from my insurance company, dentist, and financial planner, which feels less like celebration and more like a gentle reminder to stay alive and solvent.

May 2 is what I call my Heavenly Memory Day. It marks the anniversary of my husband’s passing after a long fight with prostate cancer. And in a move that was both thoughtful and just a little inconvenient timing-wise, he waited until the day after my birthday so as not to overshadow the festivities.
  

Heavenly Memory Day

In his final three days, we had Mr. Ralph at home in a hospital bed, facing the fabulous back oasis he created. Four dear friends (we were in Maui ... because he didn't want to die in the rain) gathered with us. We tied balloons to his bed rail, shared a Scotch toast, and the next morning, we released those balloons into the sky. It was simple, meaningful… and exactly the kind of send-off he would have appreciated.

And because May believes in balance, it continues with:

• the Kentucky Derby (big hats, tiny horses, questionable betting decisions),
• Cinco de Mayo (my annual excuse to eat my weight in chips and guacamole),
• multiple family birthdays (clearly August was a busy month decades ago), including my daughter on May 22,
• Mother’s Day (where expectations vary wildly),
• and Memorial Day, when we pause to remember what really matters… and also argue about whether it’s too early to put out the patio furniture.   

May holds everything—joy, grief, laughter, remembrance… and a calendar that suddenly requires a spreadsheet.

It’s a lot.

But somehow… it’s also just right.

Well ... except for the allergies ...

Be kind. I'm suffering!

THE RIGHT WORD

At my age (73 and 11/12, but who’s counting), I don’t get excited about much. But give me the right word? I will ride that high all day.

There are moments in life when I can't find the right word ... nothing fits. Not “annoying” as it is far more than just annoying.  Not “difficult.” Not even “what on earth is wrong with people?”

And then...just like finding the perfect pair of jeans ...I discover … the right word. Suddenly everything makes sense to my situation.

This week?  Martinet.

A strict enforcer of rules, often to an unreasonable degree.

Oh hello. Where have you been all my life?  This week a WLLO General (volunteer) sent me five emails before 9am screwing down on everything I did the day before. Like she got up on the wrong side of her broom.

The Joy of “Naming It”

This is my real theme: When I finally have the right word, I feel: calmer, validated, a bit superior (I'm being honest here)

It’s not just a word. It’s closure.

A few other words from this month ~

Luddite
Someone who resists new technology.  The annoying part is that they then ASK for us to look it up for them.

Dithering
Unable to make a decision.  It seems like we have several team leaders here at WLLO who have this this inability to commit.  Which often looks like some volunteers should do a task a certain way, but other volunteers are not required to do so.

Oblivious
Completely unaware.  Rarely responds when the situation calls for an email.  Then suddenly weighs in when they are not even remotely involved in a particular decision.  OBLIVIOUS.

Of course, once you start collecting “right words”… you realize some of them apply a little closer to home. (Like "intransigent" applies to me quite often, I'm sure)

At this age, I’m not trying to fix people. I’m just trying to understand them … preferably with a really excellent vocabulary.

I may not say these words out loud. But in my head? I am now extremely well-spoken.

AM I SO VAIN?

I asked myself this very serious, very philosophical question while standing at my bathroom counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at my forearms like they had personally betrayed me.

(photo taken on my bedspread rather than white countertop)

When did they get… freckly? Speckly? Spotty? When did they start looking like a topographical map of the Oregon Trail? And more importantly— why was I suddenly planning a weekly “Zap Night”?

This Sunday, I officially begin my new skincare routine:

• One Braun Silk-expert Pro 5 IPL

• One bottle of something called AmLactin (which sounds suspiciously like farm equipment)

• A retinol that warns me—gently—“you may experience mild irritation” (translation: buckle up)

And just to really round things out…

I’m buying my kid a red light therapy panel for her 40th birthday in May. For her, of course. Absolutely for her. I will simply be … testing it. Extensively. On my face. Daily.

Now before you judge me, let me explain. This is not vanity. This is… maintenance.

The same way we:

• color our hair
• wear readers in every room of the house
• and make a small, dignified noise every time we stand up

We adapt. Because somewhere along the way, something shifts. At 30, you look in the mirror and think: “Do I look okay?” At 50, you think: “Is that new?” At 70+, you think: “Well … THAT wasn’t there yesterday.”

And yet… here’s the thing. I don’t actually want to look 30. I don’t even want to look 50. I just want to look like me… but slightly less sun-damaged. Is that too much to ask?

(why yes! those are not my legs)

So yes.
Starting today, April 19, I will be quietly zapping my arms and hands. Every Sunday.

On Monday, I will be exfoliating.

On Tuesday, I will be renewing. And wearing little white cotton gloves to bed.

And at some point after May 22, I will be sitting in front of a glowing red panel like I’m trying to contact extraterrestrial life.

And honestly?  I’m kind of okay with it.  Because this isn’t about chasing youth.

It’s about taking care of the skin that got me here.

The same hands that:

• drove carpools
• held babies
• worked in the yard
• made dinners
• and now… occasionally hold a glass of wine while Googling “age spots vs something worse”

These old hands and arms deserve a little attention.

So am I vain?

Maybe.

But I prefer to think of it as selective enthusiasm for not looking like a parchment document from 1847.

And if you need me Sunday night… I’ll be in the bathroom. Zapping.